


The Adventures of Barliman Butterbur

by old_fashioned_girl



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: bookverse, but I did enjoy it, it's all bookverse, wrote this for english class, yes it was the "write the story from a different point of view" assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_fashioned_girl/pseuds/old_fashioned_girl
Summary: The tale of Barliman Butterbur: how he took part in the adventures of Gandalf, Strider, and Mr. Baggins, and why he keeps a lamp lighted in that far corner of the Common Room.
Kudos: 6





	The Adventures of Barliman Butterbur

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: lots of dialogue is directly taken from The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien. I don't own or profit from any of it.
> 
> Nothing particularly new here - this is a little story I wrote long, long ago, partly because of an English assignment, partly for the amusement of my brother, partly for my own enjoyment. I like imagining the lives of the more "mundane" characters we meet in passing during the Quest. And while Mr. Butterbur certainly does not have a mundane life, it is very interesting trying to put oneself in his shoes. How would he have reacted to Gandalf's sudden request? Or the arrival of "Mr. Underhill" and realizing he had forgotten to send the letter? Not to mention finding that Strider was a King all along!

* * *

Ah, the tale of how I got to know King Elessar? Why, it’s a right long story, that! And it’s gotten even longer, now as he’s told me some of the things that happened in the east, and how they all had something to do with Mr. Baggins and his party, and Gandalf too—not that I understood it all, mind. Too many complicated histories and Elvish names for me. But I understand now, or at least some of it—about Mr. Baggins, I mean, and what he was doing. And Strider too! Can you believe I once thought he was a ruffian of some sort? Hah!

It all began on a hot summer morning, when Gandalf arrived on my doorstep. He looked real tired, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. His cloak was all tattered up at the bottom and his boots were caked in dry mud. Where he went off to, I could never know, but he was always travelling in distant lands, where trouble was brewing. Oh, Gandalf! I’d forgotten that not everybody knows him these days. He never comes around anymore. Mr. Brandybuck (he comes into the tale as well) told me that Gandalf has gone away over the sea, along with Mr. Baggins, and the Elves. It was a sad bit of news for me, for Gandalf was a very good friend. He seemed to know everyone, from Nob to Strider to the wandering dwarves from the north! Knew all sorts of strange folk, he did. But there I go again. Like as not you’re wondering where King Elessar comes in. You’ll see.

Anyway, here was Gandalf, stepping inside without a ring nor a knock!

“Hullo, Barliman,” he says. “I won’t be staying long. A quick bite of supper and a bed for one night will do. I’m off by morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Folks in the common room are starved for news, and I’ve no doubt you’ve got lots of it. But I’ll get that bed and supper ready as soon as—hey, Nob! Where’s that dratted hobbit?”

“I can wait for a while,” said he. “But, Barley, will you do something for me?”

“You’ve only to name it,” said I.

“I’m in a hurry,” said Gandalf, “and I’ve no time myself, but I want a message sent to the Shire. Have you anyone you can send and trust to go?”

“I can find someone,” I said slowly, thinking, and knowing I can’t spare Nob just now, what with it being a busy night and all. “Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after.”

“Make it tomorrow,” said he, giving me an envelope. I still remember reading the name on it, written in bold, black letters: BAGGINS. (I’m a lettered man, so you see.)

“Well,” I said, “I’ll try, of course, but you never know these days, for the common room’s always full. Lots of queer folk coming in from the east. But—“

“Barley,” Gandalf interrupted, suddenly looking real eager, but at the same time more tired’n before. “This friend of mine from the Shire,” he said, “he may be coming out this way before long, him and another. He is a stout little fellow with red cheeks; though that won’t help much; it goes for most hobbits. But this one is taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin: perky chap with a bright eye. He’ll be calling himself Underhill.”

I made note of the fact that the letter said BAGGINS, not UNDERHILL. I didn’t want no part in housing outlaws or brigands who didn’t use their right name, I told him.

“He is an honest fellow,” said Gandalf. “You need not worry about that. But he is on important business, Barley, more important than you can imagine. You must ask no questions. And if I’m not with him, he may be in trouble, and he may need help. Do whatever you can for him, and I’ll be grateful.”

“‘Course,” said I. “Any traveller is welcome in The Pony, so long as they pay what’s due—“

“I know. But as for this friend of mine, whether he has coin or no, make sure he gets a good meal and a bed, eh?” Suddenly, Gandalf seemed to grow taller. His words were friendly, but his eyes grew all menacing-like; shadowy, somehow, if you know what I mean.

“Yes! Yes!” I cried. And I must have looked terrible afraid, for his eyes promptly got less keen, and he smiled at me in his usual, gentle way.

“Good.” Then he patted me on the back. “Keep safe, Barley.”

“I will,” I said, not knowing how earnest he’d been when he said it. I didn’t know about the danger, you see. As far as I could see, the worst of it would be a broken promise to Gandalf, which was already bad enough to me. The only real danger that came to my doorstep, I thought, was with them rangers crawling about after dark with their long swords and bows, and I didn’t worry about that too much, knowing they wouldn’t dare harm anyone in _my_ inn.

And that brings me to Strider.

Now, I didn’t like him any more than I did the other Rangers, but I think I was afraid of him the most. He was always sitting in his shadowy corner, smoking his long pipe, half invisible ‘neath his cloak. He scared me half to death, sneaking inside Mr. Baggins’s room, and only coming out when I warned them about him! Ah, but there I go again, skipping ahead and making the tale all confusing. Back to the story.

Well, when it came to the affair with Gandalf and Mr. Baggins, I tried, I really did, to find someone to send to the Shire. But as I couldn’t, I tucked up that letter somewhere in my bedroom drawer, so as it wouldn’t get lost. The name BAGGINS was mentioned quite often enough those days, when strange men on tall horses came from unknown lands in the east. Rumor was, they came from Mordor. Ah, it’s still hard saying the word without a shuddering.

One of those days, Nob stopped by the kitchen (I was sitting by the fire, as the autumn had been getting colder) and said to me: “those men, they’re asking for Baggins.” 

“Drat it,” I said to myself, remembering Gandalf’s letter which was unsent still. But aloud I said: “Now I wonder why in the world they’re looking for him. Those black men are up to no good, I’ll warrant.”

“Gandalf’s friend is Mr. Bilbo Baggins?”

“Who?”

And then Nob told me all about a remarkable birthday party that happened all the way in the Shire, where old Mad Baggins had finally cracked for good, vanishing into thin air during his feast! “I think,” said Nob, “I think it isn’t only a funny story, and these black men are looking for that same Mr. Baggins.”

“Hmm,” said I, “p’rhaps. But Gandalf’s friend is a Mr. Frodo, you see, and not Bilbo. Still, trouble may come of it.”

After then, sometimes I’d remember the letter, and tell myself to find someone tomorrow, or the day after, maybe— _make it tomorrow!_ I’d tell myself—but I never did. I thought about the letter less and less oftener till finally, I’d just clean forgot it!

When it was late September (three months after Gandalf came and left)—I was having good business those days, what with all the travellers coming in from north and south and west—I got visitors from the Shire, of all places! It was an especial event. “Strange as Shiretalk,” as the saying goes. Apparently a Mr. Underhill and a few friends along with him had come. Mr. Underhill said he was planning on writing a book. Now that in itself sounded strange enough, and should’ve been a hint to me, but it didn’t sink in that I’d forgot all about my promise to Gandalf until that night. You’ll never guess how I was reminded of it! As I’m preparing to take a moment’s rest by the fire in the kitchen, Mr. Mugwort, very much put out, trots up to me, and he says: “Mr. Underhill has up and gone! He plain vanished! Right before my eyes!”

‘Course, I was confused, not knowing what to make of it. And then they were calling for me in the Common Room.

“I saw him, Mr. Butterbur!” continued Mr. Mugwort. “Or leastways, I didn’t see him, if you take my meaning. He just vanished into thin air, in a manner of speaking.”

“There’s a mistake somewhere,” I said. “There was too much of that Mr. Underhill” (meaning no offense to him) “to go vanishing into thin air, or into thick air, as is more likely in this room.”

“Well, where is he now?” they cried. I pointed out Mr. Took who, right enough, hadn’t vanished. Samwise Gamgee was right there beside him too, but Mr. Brandybuck was nowhere to be seen.

“Well, I saw what I saw,” said Mr. Mugwort stubbornly, “and I saw what I didn’t.”

“And I say there’s some mistake,” said I, beginning to get a bit upset, seeing all the broken crockery on the floor. It appeared Mr. Underhill had been doing some stunts on the table.

“Of course there’s a mistake!” And out pops Mr. Underhill! “I haven’t vanished. Here I am! I’ve just been having a few words with Strider in the corner.”

Everyone stepped back, more than a mite surprised. They looked at him and the two others from his party suspiciously. I myself wasn’t too sure what to make of it; him disappearing, and talking with _Strider_ , of all people.

Soon after everyone began to leave, but I wasn’t very upset, knowing they’ll be back tomorrow and the night after that, till the mystery’d been talked of thoroughly. But I was upset about the broken crockery. How in the world had Mr. Underhill _vanished_? And what on earth had he been doing, fooling around on the table like that?

“Now what have you been doing, Mr. Underhill?” I said to him. “Frightening my customers and breaking up my crocks with your acrobatics!”

“I am very sorry to have caused any trouble,” he said. To be fair to him, he did look terribly sorry. Almost too sorry for making a simple foolish mistake. “It was quite unintentional, I assure you. A most unfortunate accident.”

It was then that I realized he didn’t look _sorry_ —no, indeed! I could tell he was not sorry but _afraid_ ! Mr. Underhill was plain terrified, and he was making no secret of it. His eyes said so. And as soon as he made mention of getting their ponies ready by eight o’clock, I suddenly recalled my promise to Gandalf! I remembered with a shudder the dark look he’d cast at me under those bushy eyebrows. _You must ask no questions. He may be in trouble._ There was no doubt about that. He _was_ in trouble. And he was afraid.

“All right,” I said. “Before you go, I should like a word with you in private, Mr. Underhill. Something has just come back to my mind that I ought to tell you. I hope that you’ll not take it amiss. When I’ve seen to a thing or two, I’ll come along to your room, if you’re willing.”

“Certainly!” said Mr. Underhill, but his eyes told me that he didn’t feel none too good about what I’d told him. 

When I’d finished up all my tasks for the night, I went to Mr. Underhill’s room, finding him and his two friends standing about, not looking very uncomfortable. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking in the news to them. But I did it anyways, starting with making mention of the name BAGGINS. Mr. Underhill didn’t seem to find this comforting in the least. So I told him about Gandalf’s description, and he was a bit offended by that—“Begging your pardon,” I said, Mr. Took still trying not to laugh at _stout little fellow with red cheeks_ , “but he said it, not me.”

“ _He_ said it?” asked Mr. Underhill. “And who was he?”

I began to explain to him about Gandalf, which seemed to make him even more upset. I took out the letter and showed it to him.

“Mr. FRODO BAGGINS,” I read, not without a pang of guilt, “BAG END, HOBBITON in the SHIRE.”

“A letter for me from Gandalf!” exclaimed Mr. Baggins (for it was his right name, so you see). I soon saw I had made a mess of things, plain enough. They most likely had some sort of plan, Gandalf and he, and when that letter didn’t reach the Shire in time… 

He was in some sort of danger, clear enough. 

“You’re right, master,” I said, trembling to think what horrible thing Gandalf might do to me when he came back. But still, a promise is a promise. “I’ll do what I can to set matters right,” I told them.

Since Mr. Baggins didn’t seem none too wise about the Black Riders, I told him about ‘em too. One can never be too careful these days, I thought, remembering how Strider’d been asking nosy questions about Mr. Underhill as well. A nice bit of business Mr. Baggins had got himself into, chased around by those hooded riders, and then trailed about by a Ranger! “Tried to get in here to see you, before you’d had bite or sup, he did,” I explained.

“He did!” said a familiar voice from the dark.

I don’t know if I screamed or I jumped—both, most likely, for the voice was indeed familiar but not at all to my liking. It was Strider. “You!” I cried. “You’re always popping up. What do you want _now_?”

“He’s here with my leave,” said Mr. Baggins. “He came here to offer me his help.”

“Well, you know your own business, maybe,” said I. “But if I was in your plight, I wouldn’t take up with a Ranger.”

“Then who would you take up with?” said Strider. “A fat innkeeper who only remembers his own name because people shout it at him all day?” Of all the things he said that night, that stung me the most, though I’ve forgiven him for it long ago. “They cannot stay in _The Pony_ for ever, and they cannot go home. They have a long road before them. Will you go with them and keep the black men off?”

“Me?” I cried. “Leave Bree?! I wouldn’t do that for any money.” The fervent gleam in Strider’s eyes had truly shaken me. I knew now that I had never really been afraid of him until that moment. And what’s more, I was afraid not only of him, but also the black men. If they unnerved _him_ , why—it was all so terrible! What sort of business had these poor hobbits gotten themselves into? “But why can’t you stay here quiet for a bit, Mr. Underhill? What are all these queer goings on? What are these black men after, and where do they come from, I’d like to know?”

“I’m sorry I can’t explain it all,” said Mr. Baggins. “I am tired and very worried, and it’s a long tale. But if you mean to help me, I ought to warn you that you will be in danger as long as I am in your house. These Black Riders: I am not sure, but I think, I fear they come from—“

“They come from Mordor. From _Mordor_ , Barliman, if that means anything to you,” said Strider. His voice was so quiet I could hardly hear it, but I heard his words clear enough all the same. 

_Mordor!_ “Save us!” I cried. “That is the worst news that has come to Bree in my time.”

“It is,” said Mr. Baggins. “Are you still willing to help me?”

I never did manage to wrap my head around the fact that folk from Mordor were looking high and low for this little fellow; this kindly Mr. Baggins, and—and Gandalf—my good friend Gandalf! It didn’t seem real. How could it be real?

“I am,” said I, shaking. “More than ever. Though I don’t know what the likes of me can do against, against…”

“Against the Shadow in the East,” continued Strider solemnly. “Not much, Barliman, but every little helps. You can let Mr. Underhill stay here tonight, as Mr. Underhill, and you can forget the name of Baggins, till he is far away.”

“I’ll do that,” I vowed. But I added regretfully: “But they’ll find out he’s here without help from me, I’m afraid. It’s a pity Mr. Baggins drew attention to himself this evening, to say no more. The story of that Mr. Bilbo’s going off has been heard before tonight in Bree. Even our Nob has been doing some guessing in his slow pate; and there are others in Bree quicker in the uptake than he is.”

“Well, we can only hope the Riders won’t come back yet,” said Mr. Baggins.

“I hope not, indeed,” said I. “But spooks or no spooks, they won’t get in _The Pony_ so easy. Don’t you worry till the morning. Nob’ll say no word. No black man shall pass my doors, while I can stand on my legs. Me and my folk’ll keep watch tonight; but you had best get some sleep, if you can.”

And then we all realized that Mr. Brandybuck was still missing. “Well, you do want looking after and no mistake: your party might be on a holiday!” I said, adding that I had to bar the doors for the night but I’d see to it that Mr. Brandybuck was let in when he came back. Then I bid them good night, and hoped that Strider didn’t do anything foul to poor Mr. Baggins and his little company.

Later on I sent Nob to look for Mr. Brandybuck. He was found by Bill Ferny’s house, Nob said, and he’d been lying down on the road, saying queer words. I let ‘em in, left the matter up to Mr. Baggins and Nob, and bolted the doors shut.

I hardly had any sleep that night, you know. And it was even worse in the morning. The sun had barely risen and Nob was already knocking on the door. Strider was asking for me, he said. I knew in my bones that it was a terrible day in the making.

“What are we coming to?” was all I could say to them.

“Dark times,” said Strider grimly. “But for the present you may be left in peace, when you have got rid of us. We will leave at once. Never mind about breakfast—” somewhat loud protestations from Mr. Took—“a drink and a bite standing will have to do,” added Strider. “We shall be packed in a few minutes.”

But when I went to see to their ponies, I found that the stable doors had been forced open—the lock was all broke—and every single horse and pony was gone! After all the trouble last night, it was a sore blow. I was more willing than ever to help Mr. Baggins, but all the same I hoped that when he left, things would go back to normal, and those black men would leave Bree for good.

In the end I had to pay all my guests for their missing horses. But as Mr. Baggins intended to have a pack pony when he set off, I had to buy one for them as well, as was fair. It turned out that the only one to be found was owned by Bill Ferny. The lousy cheat would only sell the beast for thrice its worth! I never liked the fellow. And to have to pay him! And know I was being cheated too! To this day I don’t believe I have ever truly forgiven him for it.

A number of bad things happened that day too, but seeing as they don’t have much to do with the adventures of Mr. Baggins, I won’t bother telling you all of them. I bid the small company of travellers goodbye and good luck, and the four of them set off towards the main road to the east, with Bill Ferny’s half-starved pony in the back, and Strider in the lead.

Truth be told, I never thought I’d see any of them again, and thought that that was the end of it. But lo and behold! That very afternoon, who comes knocking at my door but Gandalf himself! 

“I couldn’t stop them,” is what I think I said first. Whatever it was, it made Gandalf real worried and real _angry_. “Mr. Bag—Underhill, sir, he was here!”

“When? With whom?”

I tried to explain what had happened yesterday, and how they’d gone off that very morning with Strider. I don’t know how I got out all of those words, what with my knees quaking so hard I nearly fell over in fright!

“Strider!” thundered Gandalf, once I’d made mention of him.

“Yes, sir, I am afraid so, sir,” I replied sorrowfully. “He got at them, in spite of all that I could do, and they took up with him. They behaved very queer all the time they were here: wilful, you might say.”

And then Gandalf—why, it still surprises me! He embraced me, rumbling with laughter. “Ass! Fool!” he said, setting me down and laughing. “Thrice worthy and beloved Barliman! It’s the best news I have had since midsummer: it’s worth a gold piece at the least. May your beer be laid under an enchantment of surpassing excellence for seven years! Now I can take a night’s rest, the first since I have forgotten when.”

I was oh, so glad! to know that Gandalf was not upset. And right enough, that enchantment of his showed his merit as a wizard, for ever since then my beer has been uncommon good! 

Several things happened after that. It was discovered that all the missing horses and ponies weren’t missing at all, save for Mr. Brandybuck’s ponies and one or two others. They’d only been spooked and had run off. (Bill Ferny’s pony, too, came back, though why or where it had been, I don’t know.) But that’s the only good news I had that year. 

More of those black men came, about five or six, if I remember rightly. I thought I had seen the last of them when they ruined the bolsters in Mr. Baggins’s room, but it turned out I was wrong. They made an awful racket, those riders, howling through the night as they galloped through town. I don’t believe anyone had a mite of sleep that night save for Gandalf, and he soon left. I’ll have you know, I really did think that when Mr. Baggins had gone, the worst of it would leave with him. Well, I was sorely mistaken.

Things got worse and worse. Strange men (of a different sort from the black riders, I think, but they were from foreign parts all the same) began arriving from the Greenway. If you’ll believe it, some of them _killed_ good folk! Killed! Here, in Bree! 

Then the winter was bad as well. Everything got snowed under that December, and there was that big fight by the gate—ah, but you’ll not be wanting to hear all about that, for it’s a long tale as well. 

Another strange thing that happened in that long winter. I didn’t have many folks coming over those days, as it was too cold and dangerous to leave home so I had time to mull things over— sometimes I thought about them Rangers. I had been developing some rather shocking ideas about those fellows, ever since the day when Gandalf laughed and embraced me all because his friend had gone with that Strider.

“P’raps,” I said then, “p’raps those Rangers aren’t _all_ bad.”

It’d never occurred to no one that they were the ones fighting off wolves and strange men, stopping them from entering Bree-land, no matter how they lived in the Wild and had no honest work themselves. I never liked them and yet, when they were gone, I’d suddenly realized I wanted them back! 

But I figured that out too late. They were all gone. 

Everything went downhill after the big fight during New Year’s day. I had to keep a club at hand to ward off any unpleasant visitors, as a simple hard word wouldn’t do for brigands and ruffians. It went on like that for more than a year. I often thought about Gandalf, and wondered how he was doing. And poor Mr. Baggins, who knew whether he was still alive or no? Sometimes I wondered about Strider too. I was surprised to find myself feeling sorry for him, remembering how he was always jeered and frowned at when he came to Bree. The poor fellow couldn’t help how he looked; not when he had to live in the Wild.

Anyways, the following autumn I got a good shock when Nob suddenly yelled: “Mr. Butterbur! Master! They’ve come back!” So I got out my club and rushed out the door, only I found that they weren’t ruffians at all! Four little figures, clad in shining mail with swords at their belts and shields at their backs, were standing at the door with their ponies. It was Mr. Baggins and his company! And Gandalf was with them. So they had come out all right in the end, you see. 

It was mighty strange. Very grand they looked, in those glittering helmets and mail-shirts. Their shields had strange drawings on them. Gandalf, though he wore no mail, looked quite different as well. I thought he might have looked younger.

I came in to talk with them after supper-time. Since it seemed obvious enough that they had been in faraway lands, I asked them for all the news they could give, though I admit I hardly understood any of it. Mr. Baggins didn’t talk much, but as his companions did more than enough talk in his stead, I didn’t mind. From what I could gather, he was safe now and the black men weren’t after him no more, but he looked very weary. I told them some news of my own as well, about how things had been getting worse, with good folks getting killed in their homes, and Bill Ferny disappearing, and having to keep watchers all round the fence.

“Well, no one troubled us,” said Mr. Took.

“But it’s no wonder they left you alone!” I said, nodding at his mail-shirt and leather coat with some sort of white tree on it. “They wouldn’t go for armed folk, with swords and helmets and shields and all.” They hadn’t thought of that, seemingly, for they laughed in surprise and looked one another up and down as if they were seeing for the first time how outlandish and terrifying they looked with all that gear on them. Even Gandalf, wearing a long mantle of blue and silver, instead of his usual drab grey, was a sight to see.

“Well, well,” he said, “if they are afraid of just five of us, then we have met worse enemies on our travels. But at any rate they will give you peace at night while we stay.”

“How long will that be?” I demanded, a little brashly. “I’ll not deny we should be glad to have you about for a bit…”

And I explained to them all about the Rangers being away, and how we had understood them wrong, and all that. I don’t think I managed to put it in the proper words. I never could have! Never could explain those long winter afternoons when I’d think about Strider, living off the road, fighting wolves and ruffians, all hungry and cold, only to come to _The Pony_ where he was given a harsh welcome and driven off to his dark corner. I was too afraid to ask for news of him. I thought he might have died on some great battle many miles away, already forgotten.

Then Gandalf began saying something about the Rangers coming back, and other peoples coming in, and how there was a king now. But I didn’t want no more rabble and ruffians. No more outsiders. I wanted it to be like the old days, except I’d set things right with all the folk I’d wronged.

“We want to be let alone,” was all I could say. “I don’t want a whole crowd o’ strangers camping here and settling there and tearing up the wild country.”

“You will be let alone, Barliman,” said Gandalf quietly. And then he said some other nonsense about there being enough room for strangers to live in, some miles south of Brandywine, and a hundred miles north, by Deadmen’s Dike.

“That’s haunted land, they say,” I said glumly. “None but a robber would go there.”

“The Rangers go there,” continued Gandalf. “Deadmen’s Dike, you say. So it has been called for long years; but its right name, Barliman, is Fornost Erain, Norbury of the Kings. And the King will come there again one day; and then you’ll have some fair folk riding through.” 

_No!_ I wanted to shout. _You’ve got it all wrong._ _Just let us have the Rangers back,_ I thought. _And Strider, if he is still alive. Let him come back. I’ll give him a nice, clean bed, and a mug o’ beer, and I won’t shoo him off to his dark corner no more. I’ll welcome him in as if he was a friend. It isn’t enough payment, for all that he has done for me._ Me _! I’m nought but a_ _fat innkeeper who only remembers his own name because people shout it at him all day._

“Well, that sounds more hopeful, I’ll allow. And it will be good for business, no doubt,” I said with a sinking heart. “So long as he lets Bree _alone_.”

“He will,” said Gandalf earnestly. “He knows it and loves it.”

I very much doubted that. “Does he now? Though I’m sure I don’t know why he should, sitting in his big chair up in his great castle, hundreds of miles away. And drinking wine out of a golden cup, I shouldn’t wonder. What’s _The Pony_ to him, or mugs o’ beer?”

“Ah!” interrupted Master Gamgee. I thought he might be stifling a laugh. “But he says your beer is always good.”

“ _He_ says?” 

“Of course he does,” he answered, matter-of-factly, as if I should have known about it all along. “He’s Strider. The chief of the Rangers. Haven’t you got that into your head yet?”

 _Strider! Strider, the King!_ It was better and more splendiferous than I could ever have thought! A _Ranger_ , the King? Him with a crown and all and a golden cup! “Well, what are we coming to?” I said, all breathless-like. 

“Better times, for Bree at any rate,” replied Gandalf. ( _Dark times_ , Strider had said, a year ago, to that same question. He had been right.) And Mr. Baggins was suddenly laughing—truly laughing, with the happiness reaching his eyes—and I realized I hadn’t even seen him smile until then. It was a sight to warm one’s heart. Everyone felt the same way, I think, for they all laughed with him.

The very next day, when everyone else had left to see to their packs and ponies, Mr. Baggins came up to me at the counter and handed me a good amount of gold coin.

“It is for all the troubles you have taken on my account,” he said, “last year, if you recall the affair with the Black Riders.”

“Now, Mr. Baggins,” I said, “that’s hardly necessary! Your coming back alive and well is enough reward for me for doing a job well done. And besides, I’d promised Gandalf, you see.”

Then he smiled at me again, with that rare, warm smile of his. “Alright then, Mr. Butterbur. But I hope you will at least accept my thanks! You don’t know how much you’ve done for—for us, for everyone. There’s no time to explain it all now, as we’re eager to get home now, but I hope I shall write it all down in my book one day, and people will remember the strange events that happened in Bree!”

So he hadn’t been lying when he said, all those seasons ago, that he was going to write a book!

Half of Bree had showed up to see the company go off, much like last year, when faces had peeped out of windows to see them go down the road with Strider. Well, Strider wasn’t here now. But I felt easier in my heart knowing that he wasn't dead, and I’d like as not see him again someday, and make amends.

So off the hobbits went with Gandalf (Bill Ferny’s pony trotting along with them) and just like their first leaving off had been the start of something bad that got worse and worse, this time it was the start of something good that got better and better. I don’t doubt those five are at the bottom of it. I never did see Gandalf or Mr. Baggins ever again, but Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took still come to _The Pony_ every now and then to have a beer in the Common Room, entertaining my guests with their songs and tales from faraway kingdoms.

Strider, too, came back, a great many years later. With a grand company of elves and warriors, he did! I soon came to realize that he really was the king now, and most likely didn’t remember me or _The Pony_ at all. But suddenly, in he comes! Just like the old days, wearing a long cloak over his head, and a sword at his side (longer and more dangerous-looking than the one he used to wear, I thought). I start to bow and apologize, for having been mistaken about him all those years ago. But just like Gandalf, he laughs and says that all’s forgiven, only he wants some Southfarthing pipeweed and a mug o’ beer! 

And that’s why Strider’s old corner isn’t dark any longer, for I’d lighted it with a lamp, knowing he’d want to sit there. We had a long talk. I learned a great many things, like how Mr. Baggins was a great hero now, how he’d destroyed a terrible weapon of the Enemy, and saved the entire world—and saved Bree! And how the King himself wouldn’t have been king if it weren’t for Mr. Baggins and Master Samwise.

Their stories, so you see, were all tied up together from the beginning: Gandalf and the hobbits and Strider, and my own story too. But it’s a great comfort to me, knowing that we’ve got a King, one that understands us simple Bree-folk, even though all those Elvish histories and names still don’t make much sense to me. All that matters is I keep that lamp lighted in Strider’s corner, just in case he drops by one of these days. For he’ll always be welcome at _The Prancing Pony_.

* * *

_THE END_   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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